


Colors of love

by fromthedeskoftheraven



Series: Colors of love [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Family Feels, Fluff, Kissing, Marriage Proposal, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 08:28:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6044878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromthedeskoftheraven/pseuds/fromthedeskoftheraven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard falls in love with a seamstress and makes her his queen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red

Steam rose from the large cauldron that stood in the little courtyard behind the seamstress’s shop. You looked with satisfaction at the liquid within, its vibrant color the result of combining water with crushed elderberries and beetroot, boiling the mixture and straining it to produce a potent dye. Carefully, wearing an old pair of leather work gloves, you reached with a long, wooden dowel into the pot, drawing out a length of silk that had been transformed from dull ivory to a deep red that called to mind your grandfather’s homemade currant wine. After wringing out the fabric thoroughly, you hung it on the waiting clothesline to dry and peeled off the gloves, surveying your handiwork with pleasure.

Walking back into the shop, you found Agneta, your employer and friend. She smiled, and asked, “what are you working on, dear?”

“Just dying that silk with the tea stain,” you replied, and she nodded approvingly.

“It’s going to be beautiful, you’ve done a wonderful job with the color.”

“I hope so.”

“I’m just going to nip home and get luncheon for Henry,” Agneta said, tying the laces of her cloak. “Will you be all right, child? You’ve eaten, haven’t you?”

You chuckled. Sometimes the dear lady, with her sharp blue eyes and a wreath of braids in her snow-white hair, was more of a mother to you than your own mother. “I’ll be fine…and I ate in the courtyard while I waited for the pot to cool. Tell Henry I said hello.”

Agneta’s hand fluttered in a little wave, and she left the shop to go home to her husband.

You were busy at work in the back of the shop, tidying the shelves lined with thick bolts of fabric, when you heard the tinkling of the bell on the door that heralded the arrival of a customer. Walking toward the front room, you smoothed your apron over your skirts and fussed with the loose strands of hair that had escaped your hairpins, your heart giving a little flutter of anticipation.

You were only being silly, you told yourself. Bard was the King now, and though you had seen with your own eyes that he remained the humble man and doting father he had always been when he’d spent long, grueling days eking out a living on the waters of the Long Lake, you were certain he had no need to look to shopgirls for female company. Nevertheless, your stomach seemed to do a flip when you stepped into the room and saw his rugged, handsome face.

“My lord, welcome.” You bobbed a small curtsy.

Bard’s smile, though warm, was self-conscious. He wore the formalities of kingship like a new pair of shoes, the feel of which he hadn’t quite got used to. “How are you today, miss?”

“Very well, thank you,” you replied. Turning to a hook on the wall behind you, you reached down the wooden hanger that held a new gown, sheathed in a paper wrapping. “I hope you’ll be pleased with Sigrid’s dress.”

You carefully lifted the paper to reveal the confection of palest pink silk beneath, showing the front and back for his approval. He beamed. “It’s beautiful. I can’t thank you enough, she’ll be delighted.”

“You’re most welcome,” you smiled, adding encouragingly, “it is the gift of a very thoughtful father.”

“I try,” he chuckled, before shaking his head. “It hardly seems possible that my little girl will be eighteen,” he mused.

“She’s become a lovely young woman.”

He looked at you with a grateful expression. “You are always so kind to my girls. They think very highly of you.”

“The feeling is mutual,” you assured him. “I am very fond of them.”

He nodded, looking thoughtfully into your eyes, and you had to tear your gaze away to walk to a basket of remnants that stood beside the counter. “As it happens, I have a little something for Tilda…will you give it to her?” you asked, retrieving a neatly folded scrap of buttercup-yellow damask left over from the draperies in the town hall. “I thought she might make something for her doll,” you explained, offering him the fabric.

He smiled kindly as he took the little bundle from you, and his fingers brushed yours for a fleeting moment, bringing a brief flush to your cheeks. “Thank you very much,” he said, then, with a glance toward the door, “I suppose I should be going.”

“Good day to you,” you said cheerfully.

“Thank you again for the dress.”

“My pleasure. Please give Sigrid and Tilda my best.”

“I will.”

Though he had edged his way to the door, he lingered there, and it seemed to you that the shop had never been so quiet. You broke the awkward silence. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

He started slightly. “No…” his hand was on the doorknob when he suddenly turned back, looking decisive. “Yes.”

You looked expectantly at him, and he gave a small, sheepish chuckle. “It’s only that we’re having a party for Sigrid – a birthday party – and I wondered if you might like to come. The girls would love to have you,” he added quickly.

For a moment, you could scarcely believe your ears, but a smile broke over your face as you recovered from your initial surprise. “I would be honored to come,” you answered, “thank you.”

Your smile was mirrored in his pleased grin. “Yes?”

You nodded, and he looked relieved. “Good! Wonderful. Well,” he opened the door, “I’ll send Tilda round with an invitation…she’ll want to thank you for this.” He waved the fabric remnant.

“I’ll look forward to seeing her,” you replied. With one last smile, he was gone, leaving you alone to marvel at this unexpected turn of events.

Tilda appeared in the shop the next day, as promised, her eyes sparkling as she handed you an envelope of thick ivory paper. “I’m so happy you’re going to come to the party,” she enthused. “It’s going to be wonderful. Do you know, the cake is going to have sugar flowers!”

“I can’t wait to see it,” you smiled, offering her a shortbread biscuit from a tin beneath the counter. She thanked you and took a bite, catching crumbs in her hand and picking them up with her tongue as her gaze roved about the shop.

“The dress you made for Sigrid is so pretty. What are you going to wear?”

“Honestly, I don’t know,” you sighed, then shrugged your shoulders with a smile. “I’ll manage something.”

Tilda finished her biscuit and brushed her fingers on her skirt. “I’d better be going, I told Da I wouldn’t be long,” she said. “But I’ll see you at the party…only one more week!”

As Tilda left, Agneta emerged from the back of the shop, where she’d been busily sewing a gown for the wife of one of the King’s council members. Her hand clasped your arm in excitement as she looked over your shoulder at the party invitation. “I’ve thought of just the thing. The red silk.”

“What?”

“The red silk, the piece you just dyed. Take it and make yourself a dress for the party.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” you shook your head. “You can get a good price for it.”

“I am the owner of this shop, and I insist.” Her finger wagged at you and her expression brooked no further argument.

You smiled, and embraced her affectionately. “Thank you…thank you so much!”

She patted your back. “Make yourself a beautiful gown, and go and have a wonderful time.”

You would spend nearly every waking moment of the next week cutting and stitching the rich, red fabric, but as you stood at the gate of the King’s residence on the evening of the party, it had all been worth it. The dress was simple, but elegant, from the graceful neckline to the skirt that pooled slightly around your feet, drifting behind you as you walked. You had even found a remnant of sheer, embellished lace that you’d dyed to match the silk and used to create delicate sleeves.

A servant led you through the courtyard at the entrance of the stately house and into the front door, your heartbeat quickening with nervousness as you approached the ballroom, from which music and the chatter of voices emanated. With a deep breath, you entered the room and almost immediately saw Bard, standing amidst a little knot of guests near the door. His eyes met yours, and held your gaze as he excused himself from the group and came to greet you.

His face creased in a delighted smile, his glance taking in your gown. “You look lovely,” he said, a hint of awe in his tone.

Before you could answer, you heard your name squealed by a girlish voice and were nearly bowled over by Tilda, who rushed to take your hands, holding your arms wide to look at you. “Oh,” she breathed. “It’s beautiful. Doesn’t she look like a princess in a fairy story, Da?” She looked eagerly to her father.

“Indeed she does,” he said politely, his cheeks darkening just slightly.

“Thank you both,” you said, glancing between them, your own face warm, and Tilda tugged at your hand.

“You will sit with us, won’t you?” she pleaded.

You could only look hesitantly at Bard, and he immediately offered you his arm, saying, “please do.”

You placed your hand in the crook of his elbow, both of you chuckling as you walked quickly to keep up with Tilda, who retained her hold on your other hand, eager to lead you to the long table where Sigrid sat with a handful of other young ladies. You greeted Bard’s elder daughter with a hug and a birthday wish, and took a seat in the chair he pulled out for you, shyly smiling your thanks.

Dinner was served, and your place between Bard and Tilda afforded you an entirely new perspective on Dale’s reluctant King. You were charmed by the way he was drawn into conversation by his daughter, more animated than you’d ever seen him as she begged him to tell you stories from her childhood and he obliged, making both of you laugh with his gently teasing manner. Long after the dishes had been cleared away and Tilda had gone to tag along with Sigrid and her friends, you and Bard remained deep in conversation, the warmth and spark of curiosity in his brown eyes making you feel as though you were the only other person in the room when you shared your own anecdotes.

The evening seemed to pass quickly in your enjoyment of Tilda’s lively chatter and your newfound companionship with Bard, and other revelers were beginning to drift toward the door when you bade Tilda and Sigrid a fond goodbye and made to leave. You stood at the entrance to the ballroom looking for Bard, to thank him, when he appeared at your elbow. 

“Shall I see you home?” he asked quietly.

“I wouldn’t want to take you away from your guests,” you offered…in truth, a half-hearted nicety, as there was nothing you wanted more than to be with him for just a little longer.

“It would be my pleasure.” He leaned closer to murmur in your ear, his eyes twinkling, “with all due respect to my guests, I’ve had my fill of court manners.”

“Very well, then,” you smiled conspiratorially, “thank you.”

His hand rested lightly on the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd until you stepped out of the front door and into the fresh, cool, evening air. You stopped to arrange your light shawl about you, and he reached to help, drawing one end carefully over your shoulder. Together, you made your way through the darkened streets toward your home.

“I wanted to thank you for coming tonight,” he said.

“Thank you so much for having me, I had a wonderful time,” you replied sincerely, and he smiled, and fell back into silence as you walked, gazing up at the brilliant, starlit sky.

Abruptly, he spoke again. “It meant the world to Sigrid and Tilda that you were there. And, I confess,” he added, stealing a glance at your face, “I was glad, too. I have wished to know you better…beyond exchanging pleasantries in your shop.”

You looked up at him, your pleasure tinged with incredulity. “You have?”

His brow furrowed. “Why should you sound surprised?”

“Well,” you cast about for words to explain, giving a small, apologetic shrug. “I’m only a seamstress.”

“And I’m only a bargeman.”

At this, you laughed pleasantly, as did he, but your reply was earnest. “But you’re not, really, are you? Not anymore.”

He smiled, with a rueful shake of his head. “In my heart, I am the same man who hauled barrels back and forth across the lake and worried every day about putting food on the table for my children. It is only other people who think me changed, who think of me as a King.”

“They think of you as a very good King,” you encouraged, “a wise and selfless one. You’ve made this city prosperous and peaceful again.”

“I am trying.”

“I believe you.”

“Then you must also believe that I give myself no airs of being too grand to be smitten with a kind, beautiful woman who makes an honest living by the work of her hands.”

You digested this in ecstatic silence, your gaze trained on the cobblestones at your feet, a smile tugging irresistibly at the corners of your mouth. His hand grazed yours as you walked, and slowly, he reached to entwine his fingers with your own. You raised your eyes to meet his as he gently stroked his thumb over your fingertips.

His voice was low, tender. “Do you mind?”

You couldn’t repress a breathy chuckle. “Not at all.”

He smiled broadly, and clasped your hand more securely as you walked on. Too soon, you reached the house you shared with your parents, and after you pointed out the door, he came to a stop on the threshold and turned to face you, taking both of your hands in his.

“May I see you again?” he asked, adding, “Perhaps just the two of us, next time?” 

“Do you think Tilda will stand for being left out?” you asked playfully, and he chuckled.

“I think she’ll like the idea of us spending more time together.”

You nodded, the warm roughness of his hands and the fond look in his eyes making you feel almost giddy. “I like it, too.”

“I’ll call on you tomorrow,” he promised, raising your hands to press each to his lips.

“I’ll look forward to it.”

“You do realize I shall scarcely sleep tonight for thinking about you in your red dress, looking like a princess in a fairy story?” he grinned, and your laugh fell like raindrops into the silent street.

“Until tomorrow, then,” you beamed.

His answering smile was radiant. “Good night.”

You unlocked the front door as quietly as possible and, with a wave, he disappeared down the dark street. Closing the door behind you, you leaned back against it, feeling as if you could climb a mountain, or dance all night long. With a blissful sigh, you mounted the staircase to your bedroom, feeling certain that this magical night had been the start of something wonderful.


	2. White

Outside, it was a beautiful, early-Spring afternoon. Fluffy clouds drifted across a wide blue sky and the sun, just beginning to crawl toward its setting, shone golden on the city of Dale, glinting on its windows, making its fountains sparkle. The delicate freshness of the air and the softness of the light were lost on you, however, as you bent over your work, concentrating so closely on the intricate embroidery of a dress bodice that you scarcely noticed the opening of the back door that led from the courtyard into the shop.

It was only when a pair of strong, work-worn hands rested gently on your shoulders that you looked up from your task, just in time to receive a bristly kiss on your cheek.

“Bard!” you giggled. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to collect you,” he answered cheerfully.

You frowned in confusion. “But you’re early.”

Bard leaned close, as though to tell a secret. “It’s all right, I know the owner,” he winked at Agneta over her work table, across the room from yours. “I’ve asked permission to steal you away.”

You looked to your employer for confirmation, and she smiled indulgently. “Well, go on, who am I to stand in the way of young love?”

A delighted smile brightened your face, and Bard chuckled, and you eagerly laid your work aside for the next day. “Thank you again, Agneta,” Bard called, resting his hand on the small of your back to escort you out of the shop. 

He scooped up a covered basket from the cobblestones just outside the door, carrying it in one hand as he reached to clasp your hand with the other.

“What’s that?” you asked, craning your neck to look curiously at it.

“Supper,” he answered, adorably proud of his own cleverness, and he even began to whistle a lighthearted tune as you walked through the city gate and down the steep path into the river valley nestled between the spurs of the Lonely Mountain. Flocks of birds fluttered, soaring and diving through the air, and rabbits started and bounded away at the sound of your footsteps. Bard led you to a quiet, sunny spot near the water and shrugged off his coat, spreading it on the ground to sit on before unpacking a small feast of cold chicken, fresh bread, apples, wine, and sugar-dusted biscuits.

The river rushed and babbled and skipped over stones and the occasional field mouse ventured near to eye you curiously as the two of you sat side by side to eat and talk, relishing these peaceful, uninterrupted moments together, and at last you sighed, as full of happiness as of your supper. “Thank you for this,” you smiled, with an appreciative look around you, “it’s such a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“Indeed it is,” Bard agreed. He deftly plucked a yellow wildflower from among the grasses and tucked it into your hair. “Though, my eyes have found something more beautiful to look at.”

You beamed, stroking his cheek, and he caught your hand and pressed a kiss to your fingers before stretching himself out to lie on his back on the sunwarmed bank, his hands clasped beneath his head. “You are, without a doubt, the most charming bargeman I’ve ever had the good fortune to meet,” you teased, and he chuckled, closing his eyes against the brightness of the day.

You were dreamily watching the progress of the leaves that swept by on the river’s swift current when he spoke again, his warm brown eyes open once more and looking intently at you. “Tell me something,” he asked quietly, lowering one hand to absentmindedly pull small tufts of grass from the sod, “have you ever thought about marrying a bargeman?”

A girlish smile tugged at your lips, and you felt suddenly shy, dropping your eyes from his searching look. “Perhaps once or twice, when I have thought of what my life might be if I were very, very lucky,” you replied slowly, feeling the warmth of the flush that crept into your cheeks, “I may have thought about marrying a bargeman.”

Bard nodded, smiling broadly at the sky. In a slightly more mischievous tone, he added, “and what about a King?”

“Well, a King, that’s a different story, isn’t it?” you answered with a shake of your head, feigning dismissiveness. “Dodgy proposition, that.” You looked over your shoulder at him with a cheeky grin, and his laughter sparked your own.

He sat up to brush your hair behind your shoulder, trailing his fingertips gently back and forth across your back. “Have I told you that I love you?”

You cocked your head as if to consider. “Not today,” you smiled.

His look was tender now, all traces of jesting vanished from his face. “I do love you,” he murmured.

“And I love you.”

He leaned close, his warm breath mingling with yours as he captured your lips with his own, his hand flattening on your back, his palm pressed to you. Your fingers went to his chest, his neck, weaving into his hair, and you closed your eyes in surrender to the bliss of being lost in his kiss. Bard’s hand moved to cradle your cheek, and his whisper of your name against your lips brought you back to earth, opening your eyes again to the beautiful sight of his face close to yours.

His eyes were filled with love and longing, and he gazed avidly at your face for a moment before repeating your name.

“Bard, what is it, love?” 

He swallowed hard. “Will you marry me?”

You blinked in surprise, your heart seeming to skip a beat. Examining his expression for any hint of merriment, you found none. “You’re serious,” you whispered, and he nodded solemnly.

“Aye. I am. I’ve spoken to your father, and I brought you here today to ask you.” He quickly added, “I know it is no small thing to ask. Any woman who would accept me must also accept a crown…but I know in my heart that the people of Dale could not hope for a better Queen, and neither could I. If you need time to think, by all means, take it, I understand–”

“No,” you shook your head.

“No?” He paled, looking stricken, and you gasped and took his hand in yours.

“I don’t mean ‘no,’ I mean I don’t need time to think,” you said apologetically, as his expression lifted with relief and you both chuckled sheepishly. You took a deep breath, reaching to smooth a stray lock of hair away from his face. “Yes, Bard. The answer is yes,” you said softly, “I will marry you.”

His smile was luminous. “Yes?” 

“Nothing would make me happier,” you assured him, your emotion bubbling forth in an airy giggle.

“Oh, darling,” he sighed. He pulled you into his arms to hold you tightly, leaning back only to take your face in his hands and look with joy into your eyes, to press his lips gratefully to your forehead. “You’ve made me the happiest man alive,” he said, his voice husky.

“You’ve made me the luckiest woman,” you answered with a smile, cupping his chin with your hand, drawing your thumb gently across his lips before caressing them with yours.

Together, you greeted the sunset with sweet kisses and whispered promises, and the glow had begun to fade from the sky when Bard stood, helping you to your feet. “We’d better get home before we lose the light,” he said, draping his coat around your shoulders against the evening’s chill. He added, with a grin, “and I know three people who will be very happy to hear our news.”

Gray clouds rolled in with the twilight, and rain had begun to fall as you dashed through the courtyard at the entrance of Bard’s home. In the sitting room, Sigrid was reading aloud to Tilda while Bain sat cross-legged on the hearthrug, whittling sticks of kindling with his pocketknife and throwing the shavings into the crackling fire. They all looked up in surprise as the two of you walked in, damp and slightly breathless but fairly glowing with good cheer.

Sigrid hurried to take Bard’s coat from you and drape it over a chair by the fire to dry, and Tilda offered to go to the family’s small kitchen to bring more mugs for tea, but Bard stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm. 

“First, I have something to tell you, my loves.” He reached to squeeze your hand and gave you an encouraging smile. “We wanted you to be the first to know that we’re going to be married.”

The girls launched themselves at you and Bard, joyfully throwing their arms around you both, and Bain came to clap a hand on his father’s shoulder and found himself drawn by Bard into an embrace, which he gladly returned. When Bard had released him, Bain manfully shook your hand and offered, “welcome to the family, miss.” He blushed and stammered a bit before amending himself. “I suppose I should call you by your name, now,” he ventured, and you smiled and clasped his hand warmly between yours.

“Please do.”

Tilda pulled you toward the settee and Bard went to retrieve the extra mugs, saying, “let’s wait for a break in the weather before I take you home.” 

Soon, you were ensconced between Tilda and Sigrid on the soft cushions with a hot cup of tea in hand, and Bard was watching you fondly from the armchair by the fire, beaming at you whenever you caught his eye, which was often.

“When are you going to get married?” Bain asked from the fireside, where he had taken up his pocketknife again.

“As soon as possible,” Bard promised, looking to you, adding in a world-weary tone, “though it will take some time to plan, I suppose…we shall have to extend the proper invitations to our neighbors and allies.”

You chuckled, and Sigrid asked, with an air of studied nonchalance, “shall you have to invite the dwarves?”

“Oh, certainly,” Bard replied offhandedly, “King Thorin and his family, at the least.”

At this, your eyes met Sigrid’s to share a small, secretive smile; she had confided to you alone that she’d been quite taken with the looks and manner of King Thorin’s golden-haired, elder nephew since their first meeting in Laketown.

Tilda turned to you with sparkling eyes. “You’ll have to make a beautiful gown for the wedding,” she reminded you.

“You should wear that dress you wore to Sigrid’s birthday party,” Bard suggested. “You were stunning in it.”

“Da!” Sigrid laughed incredulously, and Tilda merely shook her head at her father as though she pitied his naiveté. “She can’t get married in a red party dress…it wouldn’t look right.”

You smiled apologetically at him, and Bard conceded with a chuckle. “Choose whatever you like, darling. You’ll look beautiful in anything.”

“Now you mention it, Agneta’s just got some beautiful white lace in,” you said to the girls. “You’ll have to come to the shop and see it, and give me your opinions.”

The five of you whiled away the evening pleasantly, listening to the rain on the roof and talking amongst yourselves, and Bard had just returned from filling the kettle again when Tilda sidled close to you on the settee, looking uncharacteristically timid. 

“I’m glad you’re going to marry Da,” she said quietly.

You smiled affectionately at her. “So am I,” you said, “and I’m even happier because the three of you come along with him.”

She looked pleased, and stared into the fire for a silent moment before saying your name, almost in a whisper.

“When you’re married to Da…can I call you Ma?”

Tears welled in your eyes, and you put your arm around her, drawing her close as she snuggled to your side. “Of course you can, dearest,” you answered, scarcely trusting your voice.

“I’d like to call you Ma,” she said.

“I’d like to hear it,” you replied, gratefully leaning to kiss the top of her head. 

You looked up through your happy tears at Bard, who had witnessed the exchange, and whose eyes also shone in the firelight as he smiled at you with trembling lips, seeing in you the answer to so many of his prayers. There remained dresses to make, invitations to send, rings to be forged, and vows to be spoken, but already, the love between you – between all of you – was making you a family.


	3. Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bard and his wife have a Yuletide wedding

Faint strains of cheerful music reached your ears where you stood at the window of the bedroom that was now yours and Bard’s, looking over the roofs of the city to the brightly lit square, where a bustling Yuletide market gathered merrymakers. There, you knew, the air would be scented with roasted nuts and gingerbread, and children – Bain, Sigrid, and Tilda among them – were captivated by all manner of toys, jewelry, sweets, and colorful trinkets.

As you contemplated this festive scene, a new tune suddenly brightened it. The bells of Dale were rung every evening during the six days of the Yuletide festival, and if their song seemed especially joyous tonight, surely it carried the good wishes of the people to their King and his bride on their wedding night.

Strong arms crept around your waist, and a smile bloomed on your lips as you clasped Bard’s hands with your own, giving an appreciative glance to the delicate gold band newly shining on your finger, and leaned into the warmth of his chest behind you. He held you snugly to him, dipping his head to kiss your bare shoulder where your nightgown had slipped from it.

“Happy?” His voice was smoke and honey, still tinged with the heated murmurs with which he’d filled your ears and stirred your blood, and you sighed and reached back to weave your fingers into his hair, now tousled and loose about his face.

“Blissful,” you smiled, and felt the breath of his satisfied chuckle against your hair. Turning to face him, cradling his cheek with your hand, drawing your thumb over his lips as they pursed in a kiss under your touch, you looked into his eyes in the candles’ glow. His gaze was as warm and kind as it had been on the day you’d first met him, and now so full of love it nearly stole your breath. “Are _you_ happy?”

“Oh, darling,” Bard beamed. “More than you can imagine.”

“I can imagine a great deal,” you teased, and he laughed, but his words were heartfelt.

“Today was perfect, every minute…and I could want for nothing now that you’re mine.”

His palms flattened on your back, pulling you close while he pressed his lips to your forehead, to the tip of your nose, to your lips, lingering there with caresses achingly slow and tender. He broke from you gently, his hand guiding your head to rest on his shoulder, and you stood content in his arms, gazing toward the hearth, where your wedding gown lay draped over an armchair and sprigs of holly adorned the mantle, red berries winking from among glossy, dark green leaves.

“This is the most wonderful Yuletide yet,” you murmured, and raised your head to smile at your husband.

Bard’s face creased in an answering smile, and he nodded, and reminded you, “and we have a lifetime of them ahead of us.”

“So we have.” Your smile broadened at the thought. “For now, however,” you purred, standing on tiptoe to kiss him, “come back to bed, love.”

He grinned, and took your hand to bring it to his lips. “I am yours to command, my Queen.”


End file.
